


Small Tantrums

by northernmongrel



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Blackwatch Era, F/F, Feelings, Lesbian Sex, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27827146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northernmongrel/pseuds/northernmongrel
Summary: Moira has some unresolved feelings for Fareeha. Both women are a touch stubborn.
Relationships: Fareeha "Pharah" Amari/Moira O'Deorain
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Small Tantrums

**Author's Note:**

> Self satisfying piece written a while back, posting now. It's been a while haha! Please leave a comment if you like (:

It starts in Israel. 

Gabe’s been investigating an oil sand’s operation off the Mediterranean sea, illicit, with funds bleeding into the Israeli weapons trade. And a two week mission turns into six, and the trail leads them from Israel to Lebanon, turns cold for three days, only to pop up again in north Syria. 

Moira leaves Gabe in Aleppo, returns to Watchpoint Gibraltar exhausted at quarter-past three in the morning. She swallows back two sleeping pills with tap water, strips naked and crawls into bed. She sleeps for sixteen hours, tangled up in cool sheets, the room deliciously dark. The air dry. 

She wakes up feeling somewhat human again—somewhat. She showers, scrubbing dust from her skin, her scalp. And then she fiddles with the coffee maker, brews herself something fancy, something strong. 

She settles herself down at her work station, cross legged, surveying the mess. Cold notes. Idea’s half-scratched out into existence. She sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. Takes a sip of coffee. All this fresh perspective. 

Two hours later, she files the last of her notes away. Cracks open the message file on her personal computer, and starts to scan through the items. There’s a ping at her door, and Fareeha steps inside. Doesn’t wait for an invitation, because really. The girl never does. Moira glances up from the screen. 

“—Morning.”

“Afternoon, actually. Didn’t know you were back.” Fareeha says, walks over to the window and cracks open the blinds and fuck it’s bright. Moira sucks in a breath, scrubs at her stingy eyes. 

“Wish you’d be more courteous. More civil.” Moira says between her teeth, “Close the blinds now, won’t you?” 

“You didn’t even say hello. I had to check the Watchpoint’s air traffic log.” Fareeha says, indignant. 

“I was tired. You know how it is.”

“You could've at least stopped by my room, said hey. I didn’t die in a dustbowl overseas.” Fareeha says, points it out like the most obvious thing in the world. 

“I feel terrible.” Moira sighs, and it’s the truth either way.

Fareeha snorts, tosses Moira an orange from across the room. She leans her hip against the wall, and starts to peel one for herself, “So. How was it by the way. Israel, right?”

“Yes. There about.”

“Did you and uncle Gabe catch the bad guys?” Fareeha pops a slice of orange into her mouth, quirks an eyebrow. 

“Can’t say.” Moira says.

“Fine. I’ll ask him when he gets back, he’ll tell me. He’s nice like that.” Fareeha scrunches her nose, and then starts to carefully peel the orange apart. Segment by segment, dark hair falling over her eyes and Moira can’t help but watch, still foggy from sleep and the change in timezone. It’s been a while. Two months at least. Fareeha looks good—she looks older, somehow. Probably the short crop of her hair. When had she taken the scissors to it?

And then; “I enlisted in the Egyptian air force.” Fareeha says so casually, so off handed, “My first tour is in February.”

“Does your mother know?” Moira asks, her immediate reaction.

“No. She, uh. She’s in the US right now, won’t be back for another month.”

“You should tell her.”

Fareeha sets her jaw, “You know what she’d say. You know exactly how’d she feel about it.” Fareeha says, lip curled. 

“Amari and I aren't exactly on speaking terms so, no. No I wouldn't.” Moira shrugs, digs her nails into the orange skin, too hard. Too late. Her fingertips are sticky with citrus juice, and she wipes them on the linen of her pants. 

Fareeha nods, slow, considering for a moment. “And you?”

“I have no feelings on the matter.” Moira says, shrugs. And that must’ve been the wrong fucking answer because Fareeha curses under her breath, something in Arabic, and then stalks out of the room. Moira leans back in her chair, places her index knuckle between her teeth, and fights the urge to bite down on the bone.

She should probably apologize for something. Moira figures this out while sitting in the Watchpoint’s cafeteria, stabbing her fork into a cold pasta salad. She’s not hungry, not really. Sure, she might’ve dropped a few pounds over the past six weeks. It had been too hot to sleep, too hot to eat. There’d always been sand between her teeth, dust on her tongue. She really should file her field-retirement request. Gabe would cut her from Blackwatch’s field duty if she asked nicely, if she plays him right.

She stabs a piece of pasta, chews it slowly. Repeats. And then finally she stands up, deposits her finished tray in the garbage bin and walks outside into the balmy late-afternoon. She finds Fareeha on the old tarmac strip, shooting basketball hoops. 

Moira props herself against the chain-link fence, rests her chin on her knuckles. Watches Fareeha work the ball over on the rippling heat of the tarmac, dark hair plastered to the nape of her neck. 

Moira clears her throat. 

Fareeha glances over, looks away, and shoots another hoop before letting the ball roll away. 

“Can I help you?” Fareeha asks, breathless. Sweat dripping down her sternum bone. She cracks open a bottle of water, takes a long drink, keeps one eye on Moira.

“I wanted to apologize, for earlier. I should've said something more… tactful. Like congratulations.” Moira tries out the words on her tongue. 

“Forget it. Doesn’t matter.” Fareeha shrugs. 

“If it makes you happy. If it’s what you want, I support it.” Moira says, “You know I always have supported you.”

“But it’s not just about that. It’s everything.” Fareeha wipes sweat from her forehead, licks the salt from her upper lip, “Everything between you and my mom and Gabe. And I need an out. But at the same time, I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave because I’d fucking—I’d fucking miss you.” Fareeha spits. 

Moira bites the inside of her cheek. “Now you know how it feels.”

“To what, miss someone? You leave for weeks. Months. And it’s like you don’t care. You can’t care.”

“Fareeha, please.” she sighs through her nose, runs a hand through her short hair, “You’re blowing this out of proportion. Be reasonable.” 

“I don’t want to keep missing you.” Fareeha says.

“I have a career. I have an obligation to Blackwatch, to Gabriel. Things you’ll understand one day.” Moira says, and it sounds like complete bullshit, even to her, but she says it anyways because she can’t stop. And Fareeha clenches her teeth, juts her chin in the opposite direction and takes a deep, steadying breath. And then there’s a crack and Moira’s nose is gushing blood. It drips off her chin, pattering on the hot tarmac. 

“Fuck.” she hisses, reeling back, “—Fuck.”

“Fuck you.” Fareeha says, grips Moira by the back of the neck and then promptly smashes their mouths together. It’s rough—angry, Moira tastes salt and copper and it makes her knees shamefully weak. Her fingers creep to the small of Fareeha’s spine, up the back of her shirt, feeling damp warm skin. Giving in for a just a moment, just a moment. 

Fareeha yanks away, as abrupt as it starts. There’s blood in her teeth, which she spits out before she grabs the basketball and starts walking back towards the base. Moira stands there, alone, the taste of Fareeha on her tongue and salt in her eyes. Right.

Forty minutes later, the bleeding still hasn’t stopped. So Moira resigns to visit the medical unit. Swears off alcohol for the next week if only doctor Ziegler isn’t there, if only. But of course she’s there to greet Moira at the door with a thin smile and suspicious eyes. Fuck.

“—Don’t ask.” Moira grits, as Angela directs her to sit on an examination table. 

“You know that’s against my operating policies.” Angela says, “Here. Stop pinching it, let the blood flow.” and hands Moira a clean towel to sop up the fresh blood, tips her head forward with two fingers to the back of the skull. Moira lets her.

“You’re back on base for what, not even twenty-four hours? And this happens.”

“Fareeha punched me.” Moira grits.

“Did you deserve it?”

“Maybe.”

“Then good.” Angela clucks her tongue.

“And then the girl had the gall to kiss me.”

Angela pulls a wry smile, “Sounds like unresolved sexual tension to me. You really should talk to someone, perhaps a therapist.” she says, sickening sweet. 

“Angela, it’s not to be humoured.” Moira grumbles, swallows, and there’s blood in the back of her throat.

“You are infuriating at times, trust me. I’d know these things.” Angela says, calm, knowing.

“Amari would skin me alive.”

“Ana’s just looking out for her daughter, like any good mother would. You’d understand, if you had a child. How was Israel by the way?” Angela asks, brisk.

“Dry. Hot. Violent. I have research to catch up on. Proposals to finish. Things I can’t talk about with you.” Moira mutters.

Angela still smiles, tucks a strand of blond hair behind her ear, smiles, “I wouldn't give you the opportunity.”

Moira sighs, slouches her spine, “We used to be decent together, Angela. We used to be good. What happened.”

“Time happened. The war. You became insufferable. Preoccupied. And an alcoholic.”

“The last one is… not true.”

“Please. Out of the two of us, who’s the actual doctor. I know when you’ve been drinking.” 

“Shouldn’t you be in Switzerland right now.” Moira mutters. She holds the towel away from her face, notices the blood has finally stopped. 

“Contrary to popular belief, I do have my own work to attend to. Actual, living breathing patients. Are you fine now? Are you going to live?” Angela asks, quirks an eyebrow, “Or do you require more medical attention.”

“Yes. I’m fine.” Moira says, waving a dismissive hand. “Please. Continue with your busy schedule.”

“Very well. Also, you should stop denying yourself. It’s selfish, and it looks bad.”

“Don’t say that to me Angela. You know I can’t. It’d be—a terrible idea.” she says, even thought it’s a shit excuse. Because she can remember Fareeha, ten years old. With bony knees and dirt underneath her fingernails and it feels like yesterday, not thirteen years ago. 

“—Well, at least you two aren’t colleagues.” Angela says, brittle. And just for a moment, Moira can see the weariness in those blue, blue eyes. 

The next day, Fareeha leaves to Watchpoint Grand Mesa. Doesn’t leave a note. Doesn’t say goodbye. And Moira knows she deserves it—probably deserves worse. 

She logs onto one of the main computers on base, confirms that Fareeha arrived in Colorado on time. That she’s safe. That she’s far away, again. 

Moira throws herself into her research after that. She sets unachievable deadlines, works late into the night. Gabe contacts her a week later from somewhere in Syria, says that he’s pulled McCree from an undercover OP in Vietnam to help with the investigation. Gabe likes this sort of thing. He could stay in the field for months, deep shadow conditions, and not give two fucks. He prefers it that way. She doesn’t.

So she stays in her lab. Works off the backbone of her most recent genetic breakthrough, keeps in correspondence with Southern Iraq’s research centre, and lets that consume most of her time. She starts drinking in the afternoon, a bad habit, she knows. But it curbs the hollow in her chest. Helps her forget that she's a terrible person for wanting. 

She eats. She showers, rubs herself off with a hand between her thighs, thinking about warm skin and how Fareeha tasted in her mouth. Hot and angry and demanding to be felt. Always demanding.

In February, Gabriel requests her assistance back in Syria, and she obliges. Doesn’t really have much of a choice, because no other Blackwatch personal are cleared on the investigation. So she packs light, arrives in Aleppo twenty hours later, meets up with Gabe who’s grown scruffy since she last saw him. The city is on lockdown, but they’ve got a secure room in an old hotel that has it’s top floor blasted out. 

“—You’ve been busy.” Moira says, dumping her gear on a old mattress, “And agent McCree is requiring a haircut.” she nods towards the gunslinger in the corner of the room who pulls a face, flicking a cigarette butt in her direction, and rocks back on his plastic chair.

“The investigation is under wraps. Complete, actually.” Gabe says. He’s at the window, looking down onto the bustling street below. Blesses Moira with the smallest of nods in greeting.

“Very good. Why have you requested me?”

“For your pleasant attitude and fine work’n ethic.” McCree drawls, closes one eye and points a lazy finger-gun at her.

“You’ve been out in the field, too long agent McCree. Your manners are, par usual, appalling.” Moira sniffs. 

“Watch the mouth Jesse.” Gabe warns, and then, “We pinned down the oil sand’s operation. Handed the case over to the UN because it encompassed too much territory. But we kept the weapons trade under hush. Turns out they were investing in bio-weapons.”

“Yer’ speciality.” McCree says, absently chewing his dirty thumbnail. 

“Right. We need you to take a look. Confirm what we saw back down in Damascus. Don’t wanna hand anything over to the UN before all angles are considered.” Gabe says. 

“Of course.” Moira hums, “You want to seize what’s useful.”

“We want to be selective of what the UN receives. Or, is aware of. You know how it is, O’Deorain.” Gabe says, steps away from the window, and into the yolky light of the hotel room, “We got a transport leaving tomorrow, first thing. I wanna be back on Gibraltar in three days, tops.”

“You’ve made yourself clear.” Moira says. 

“Good. How are things back home? How’s Fareeha?”

“She’s enlisted in Egypt’s military. Probably would've told you herself, but. You know how it is.”

Gabe nods, “Good for her. She’s all grown up. How’d her mom take it?”

“I haven't had the opportunity to ask.”

“She’ll make a fine pilot. The best, with that attitude of her’s.” Gabe says, pride in his voice, in his eyes.

Moira swallows, “The best.” she agrees, curt, knowing she probably shouldn't say more.

“Still remember when she was a wee’ lil thing. ‘Bout knee high.” Jesse says, “Don’t you remember, O’Deorain?” and her name sounds dirty on his tongue.

“Indeed.”

“—Right. There’s a mattress in the spare room. Run the water at least a minute before drinking. MRE’s in the cupboard. McCree has watch tonight.”

Moira nods, turns around to check the size of her mattress, when McCree clears his throat from his slumped position on the chair. 

“But hey, O’Deorain. Ain’t Fareeha look’n fine these days? Spout’ up in the blink of an eye, she did.” and there’s a leer in his voice, a certain brand of cockiness that Moira wants to slap from his mouth. But she doesn’t. She digs her fingernails into the meat of her palm and turns away.

The next morning they drive a transport down and along the Mediterranean sea. Jesse rides with the windows open, boots on the dashboard, music blaring. Gabe drives. Moira sits in the back seat, keeps her mouth shut about Jesse’s choice of radio station, the ash she breaths in from his cigarettes. To the right, the coastline extends sparkling and blue until Gabe skirts Lebanon’s border and they drive inland. 

Gabe drives them to a warehouse, ten miles outside Damascus. Moira lets them take point. It’s a typical setup; cargo containers stacked high, labeled for off-shore shipping. Jesse cracks open a container and steps aside. 

By the end of the day, Moira has the weapons tagged and sorted with the least controversial on hold for the UN. The rest will be deposited into Blackwatch’s hold by the end of the week. 

It’s late by the time they finish. Jesse and Gabe rent a hotel, are polite enough to invite her along, but she declines. Jesse’s cigarette smoke has her on the cusp of a throbbing migraine, she can feel it brewing behind her left eye. So she scopes out the nearest bar and swallows back two painkillers with a shot of vodka. 

She slouches, the sharp of her elbows on the wooden countertop, tipping her shot glass back and forth, back and forth. The few patrons ignore her, thankfully. And then the bell on the door jingles—seconds later, a finger jabs her in the shoulder joint, hard.

“—You always seem to look like shit these days.” Fareeha says, elbowing her way beside Moira and waves to the bartender, “Or maybe it’s just me.”

“Fareeha—” she startles. 

“Don’t worry. I’m here on assignment. Aerial suppression over the northern state.” Fareeha orders a shot of whiskey—vodka for Moira, and throws it back with a practised ease. Moira blinks, twists her mouth in disapproval. Since when did Fareeha take up drinking? 

“And you? Let me guess, can’t say.”

“You punched me.” Moira says, curls her lip, “And then you left.”

Fareeha pulls a face, runs her tongue along the rim of the shot glass and Moira doesn’t have the self control to avert her eyes, “Yeah. Well, at least I didn’t break it. Your nose, that is.”

“It was uncalled for. Immature.”

“I can do it again, if you want. If you liked it.” Fareeha offers, sly for a moment, and then she deflates with a sigh.

“No. No, I don’t particularly enjoy being punched in the face. I think most people can agree with that notion.”

Fareeha shrugs, “I like you.”

Moira sighs, running her finger along the rim of her glass. “Really. I couldn't tell.” she says, flat.

Fareeha tips back another shot, and sets it aside, “You must know, after everything. And it’s not… this isn’t about me being naive. Or stupid. Or young, anymore. So don’t make it sound like that.”

“I know.”

“You said you missed me.”

“I know.”

“And I know, there’s things. Things you can’t talk to me about, and that’s fine. Just… stop treating me like shit.”

“I’m trying to be a good person here, Fareeha. I’m trying to do the right thing.” Moira says, and god it kills her, lying between her teeth like this. It fucking kills her, for once in her life. She’s not a good person—certainly not when it comes to Fareeha. 

Fareeha snorts, rolls her eyes, “You’re worried about my mom.”

“…Perhaps. Amongst a plethora of other things.”

“Don’t be.”

“You Amari’ are frightening women. You’re aware, yes?” 

“I miss you.” Fareeha says, more like a fact than a confession. 

“You’ve only been gone, what. Four weeks?” Moira scoffs.

“Long enough.” Fareeha shrugs, and cracks a smile that lights up her eyes. Moira steals a moment, reaches out to tuck a strand of dark hair behind Fareeha’s ear, and then leans forward to kiss her. Fareeha tastes like whiskey and the faintest hint of wood smoke, a nice change from the last time they did this.

They rent a hotel room that night in the city. There’s a rush to it all. The warm night air, the bustle of Syria’s capital, the way she can’t seem to keep her hands off Fareeha’s skin on the way to the room. 

The sheets are cool, and Moira presses Fareeha down onto the bed first. Unbuckles her pants, tugs the shirt with Egypt’s military crest over Fareeha’s head. She licks down her sternum, tastes the salt on Fareeha’s warm skin, nuzzles her face into the softness of her breast. 

“Fuck.” she mutters, just a little breathless, “—fuck.” and when they’re both naked, Fareeha wraps strong legs around her waist, digging the heels of her feet into the back of Moira’s thighs. Urging her closer, neck tilt up so that Moira can ravish it with her mouth, feeling Fareeha’s pulse with her lips. And it’s good. It’s so very, very good. Angela had been right. Denying herself had been cruel. 

The sun rises early, and Fareeha is the first to crawl out of bed. She leaves the room, and returns ten minutes later with a plastic bag of figs from one of the street stalls outside the hotel. Moira watches from the bed, sprawled out, utterly content not to move as Fareeha puts water on the stove for coffee. Walks around the room barefoot, wearing an oversized white t-shirt that goes down to her thighs. 

“—Did you get breakfast?” Moira asks, voice hoarse.

“And coffee. Here—” Fareeha sets two cups on the bedside table, and then swings one leg over Moira’s stomach, settling herself down, looking pleased with herself.  
“—You look awfully smug about something.” Moira mutters. 

“That was nice, last night.”

“Yes, it was indeed. Now, can I please have my coffee before it turns cold.”

“I have three months left of my tour. We should… do this again. Sometime. Soon.”

“Is that so?” Moira quirks an eyebrow up at Fareeha, runs a knuckle along that gorgeous jawline. 

“Yeah.” Fareeha whispers.

“You’re awfully demanding. But you know this, don’t you.”

“Hm—” Fareeha hums, takes her hand and kisses the inside of her palm.

“—Say you’ll miss me. Say you think about me when we’re not close.” Fareeha whispers, just a little desperate—just a little young. 

“Dear, you know this.” Moira breaths, “You’ve know this for a while.” and this seems to satisfy, because Fareeha slides off Moira with a smile. Moira drinks her coffee, they eat figs from the plastic bag and stay in bed for most of the morning. Content. Savouring the taste of it on each other’s mouthes. And yeah, she does have some feelings on this matter.


End file.
